


old friends & new faces

by asp_en



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Tags Are Hard, Titles are hard, an unchoreographed encounter of chaos gremlins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:20:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asp_en/pseuds/asp_en
Summary: Jack is trying to help protect a vulnerable colony when he runs into an old friend. Who is actually an entirely different old friend.Set sometime shortly after Deep Breath, featuring a still-slightly-befuddled recently-regenerated 12.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor & Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor & Jack Harkness
Kudos: 13





	old friends & new faces

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact / just for the record: Except for final edits, this has been sitting, completed, on my hard drive, since before I saw any of Season 12.

The raid sirens have been blaring for nearly two minutes.

Jack pushes his way through the chaotic streets, fighting against the current of terrified colonists running the other way. He stops to help out, where he can; he might not be anyone with authority, here, but he has the experience and the discipline to know what needs doing when he sees people frozen in place. He ushers frightened citizens to follow the crowds back to safety, and directs the stunned and confused guards to their nearest posts.

As he crosses the town the streets gradually empty out. By the time he sees a scout droid buzzing overhead he’s able to shoot it down safely, with little fear of it dropping on someone’s head. An attack drone gives him a little more trouble, but eventually he gets the better of it, and resumes his trajectory towards the sounds of shouting, gunfire and heavy impact.

Rounding a corner, he sees what looks like two civilians—an older man and a young woman—running hand-in-hand across an open square, an enemy machine bearing down on them from above. He takes aim, waits until he thinks the trajectory is safe, and fires; the bot’s flight pattern dissolves and it thunks unceremoniously to the ground, smoking, a few feet behind the runners.

“Cover over here!” he shouts. They head his way without hesitation. It’s not much, but the building he’s standing against offers a solid wall and a small overhang, a considerable improvement over the wide-open space or the pulverized shacks on the far side of it.

But halfway there, the man stops. It’s absurd, in the middle of an active war zone, out in the open, but he stops, and goggles.

“Jack?”

His voice is surprised, but then grows bolder.

“Captain Jack Harkness, is that you?”

Jack stares back, for a moment, and then appraises the speaker with greater attention: an older gentleman, white, grey-haired, smartly dressed, staring at him with a disconcerting blend of excitement and uncertainty. The young woman beside him—very cute, he has to say—is brown haired, also white, slender, and falling over her own feet when her companion’s momentum suddenly ceases. She rights herself and looks back at him like he’s mad, looking ready to force him to keep moving—but then he starts running again of his own accord, now dragging her along behind. His eyes have widened with delight.

“It is! It’s you!”

Jack is frowning. He feels like he knows that face, but among centuries of memories, he’s having trouble placing it. The grey-haired man seems totally unconcerned by Jack’s lack of response, and simply beams at him as the distance between them closes. He opens his mouth to speak once more, but the young woman abruptly forces him against the wall and down behind some rubble as another explosion shakes the square, and shushes him commandingly when another drone whirrs by overhead in its wake.

When it passes, Jack looks back to his new companions. The man, now standing between him and the girl, is facing her while still gesturing excitedly at Jack as if to say _Look who it is!_ , but then withers at her scowl. Although he’s old enough to be her father (grandfather?), something about the whole interaction reminds Jack of a hyperactive kid getting scolded by mum. 

Jack's curiosity has been fully piqued, but there _are_ more pressing matters at hand. He continues to surveil the area, vaguely aware of some half-gestured, half-whispered argument behind him. He finds what he’s looking for.

Moving into their line of sight, Jack gestures to a relatively intact-looking building a bit further down the street, with an invitingly half-open door; he pauses only long enough to register their nods of agreement before setting out.

They fall in behind him, still speaking quietly, but clearly enough for Jack to hear.

“Okay, who is he?” The woman barely spares a glance at Jack; she’s interrogating her friend(?), and he has the impression that she’s doing it less out of curiosity and more to resolve whatever has gotten the man so excited. Her tone is lightly irritated and belongs to someone who is very used to getting their way—and is also mindful that this is _not_ the time or place for a heartfelt reunion.

“This is—this is—” From the corner of his eye, Jack catches the stranger making uncertain gestures towards him. It almost seems that the man expects that, at any second, some memory of hers will jog and she’ll know who Jack is. They reach the house; Jack gestures for them to stop where they are as he cracks the door open, doing a quick safety check.

Apparently realizing that his gesturing won’t work, the stranger-who-knows-him attempts words again. “That’s—Captain Jack Harkness? …Former time agent? Former Director of the Torchwood? Er, Torchwood 3, at least…”

The hairs on the back of Jack’s neck bristle. A stranger who knows him _well_ —or at least, has done their homework. The building looks safe inside. He motions the other two in, and closes the door quietly behind him. There’s a natural skylight in one corner, which makes the building less than ideal for prolonged concealment, but it’s more secure than that little overhang had been, and should give Jack a moment to figure out what the hell is going on here.

The older man is still trying to explain; the young woman has only narrowed her eyes with mounting impatience.

“Defender of the Earth? The man who can’t die? Future—wait, no, not supposed to talk about that—”

The woman stops glaring at him only long enough to fix Jack with a scrutinizing stare, but Jack isn’t really paying her much heed. Because those are most definitely the words of a time traveler.

A time traveler who—maybe, just maybe—knows him, personally, from the 21st century.

He feels a momentary rush of anticipation… before it’s swept away by confusion, because he’s also just remembered exactly how he recognizes that face. But that can’t be possible. John Frobisher and his family died during the 456 event, some of the most tragic and unnecessary deaths of that whole mess. There was no way _John Frobisher_ could be _here_ , on another planet, in the 394th century… could there?

Jack’s mood turns cold, suddenly feeling that someone is playing a trick on him, and he’s not sure if it’s a friendly joke or a baited trap. Considering the current situation, it would be unsafe to assume the former… but he’ll at least play at both angles.

He plasters on his most charming, pleasant smile, with just a hint of apology.

“I’m sorry, not the _best_ place to, ah, re-meet,” he says, selling minor embarrassment quite believably. “Sorry—this is awkward, I can’t quite…” He winces, as if stricken by a particularly humiliating possibility. “You’re not… an old…” he glances uncertainly at the young woman, as if minding his words on her behalf, “… _acquaintance,_ of mine, are you?” His eyes dart down the man's body, lingering briefly on the groin, to complete the suggestion.

(He doesn’t, for one second, actually consider that a one-night-stand could be the correct explanation… although, god knows, he’s had enough that it’s not impossible.)

The stranger looks taken aback, his unruly eyebrows shooting up, then pulling low over his face. He has completely missed the innuendo and taken the words at face-value, so it’s not a look of disgust or offense, but genuine confusion.

“No? …No, come now, we, we traveled together for…months,” Jack starts to look more concerned than enlightened, and the man starts snapping his fingers repeatedly as if summoning wandering memories. “Uhm, we, ah… saved the Earth together… more than once? Nothing? Ahhhh, we both fancied the same—Amy! Wait, no, that’s not quite…” He flounders. “Right, uhm, we abandoned you on a—big, sort of, space… well, that wasn’t exactly one of my finest moments…”

Jack _is_ starting to suspect, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up just yet and… frankly, all of these statements are pretty vague, and he has lived a _very_ long time. Traveling, saving the earth, being caught in love triangles or unceremoniously abandoned are not things he’s only done with one man, and certainly none of them were with John Frobisher.

The stranger looks back at his young friend as if begging for help, but she just fixes him with an expression that says _What do you want from me? Not my problem!_ They all freeze for a moment as something momentarily darkens the skylight, but it passes quickly. With a sigh, the girl rolls her eyes and, staring directly away as if she’s embarrassed of (or maybe _for)_ her friend, grates out as casually as she can: “Did you… I dunno… _look_ any _different_ back then?”

That catches Jack’s attention, but sails over the other man’s head. He sounds annoyed. “Well, yes, I’ve only just changed my face! You know that, Clara, you were _right there_ , I—oh! Right!” Dawning comprehension. “Yes! Different face!” The one he’s wearing right then has lit back up and he turns again, pointing between himself and Jack. “I, had a different face! When you traveled with me! Two different faces, actually…”

Jack’s banal expression—as much as it had been a front to begin with—disappears instantly, replaced with quick-thinking consideration. _Used to have a different face,_ on its own, _still_ wouldn’t actually narrow things down too much—Jack has been around long enough to know plenty about shapeshifters, holograms, glamours and cosmetic surgery—but combined with _time traveler_ and the (admittedly vague) description of their past escapades and… something about that boyish playfulness and the twinkle in those old eyes… He dares to hope.

“…Doctor?”

The gentleman grins widely, steps back, and throws his arms up and out in a grand gesture. He looks for all the world like a stage magician after the reveal, expecting applause. “Yes! Finally! rrrRecognition!” he proclaims. Clara immediately and reactively crouches and makes shushing gestures; he recognizes his error with a hint of chagrin, joins her in the unnecessary crouch while grinning broadly, and then begins to berate in victory. “See, Clara? Hasn’t seen me for _centuries_ , missed the _whole_ last face, wasn’t present _while it changed_ , but _he_ can still—"

He’s cut off, taken entirely by surprise, as Jack, temporarily losing composure, steps forward and pulls him into a fierce kiss.

It is as short as it is intense, and transitions immediately into a bone-crushing hug.

The Doctor freezes, eyes huge, mouth clenched shut, arms still wide from his extravagant pose and conspicuously _not_ folding around Jack in any form of reciprocation. He suffers the contact of the hug for an awkward moment, perhaps out of respect for his old friend… or perhaps from utter stupefaction. A few seconds in, though, he gingerly pets the Captain’s shoulder; when that doesn’t earn him his release either, he stares at Clara with wide eyes that plead for help. She’s staring straight back at him, nearly as surprised as he is. But then, fighting back a laugh, she mercifully comes to his rescue. Tapping Jack on the shoulder, she gives him an apologetic grimace.

“He, erm, doesn’t ‘do’… hugs.”

Jack pulls back to stare at the Doctor’s new face, holding him at arm’s length. He takes a moment to batten down a sudden wellspring of powerful emotions—remembering how long it’s been since he saw this man, remembering the last time he saw that _face_ and everything that happened that awful day—and then easily slips back into the playful persona he’s always worn for this man.

“Since when?”, he asks, almost managing to sound offended.

The Doctor switches his deer-in-the-headlights gaze back to Jack, but remains at a loss for words.

Clara, on the other hand, is delighted by this boisterous, handsome, life-saving old friend-of-her-friend. She settles her face into her best disapproving look (although laughter threatens at every second), crosses her arms, and levels another glare at the Doctor. She speaks with as much scandal as she can muster. “Since this new regeneration, _apparently.”_

The Doctor’s eyes dart back and forth between his two stern-looking companions, honestly seeming a bit cowed by it all; his entire face seems to fall open, flummoxed. When they both just keep staring, he speaks with uncertain defensiveness. “Right, look, I’m not—It’s nothing against either of you, you’re both, lovely people, I’m just, I’m not a… a…”

Clara rolls her eyes. “Not a ‘hugging sort of person’ anymore,” she finishes for him. The Doctor stands slightly straighter, pointing to her and nodding decisively _(Yes, what she said)_ … but still looks at Jack with something like fear in his eyes.

Jack considers giving the mollified Doctor a reprieve, but he can’t help carrying on just a bit longer. He crosses his arms with a swagger, and gives the new body a very un-subtle look over (trying to ignore the uncanny mismatch of the man he _sees_ and the man who's _actually there)_ , before sighing dramatically. “Eh, I suppose that means anything _more_ than hugging is off the table, too,” he's rewarded by a look of shock that clearly anticipates further horror, “which is a _real_ shame, because you’ve got a pretty good silver fox thing goin’ there, Doc.”

The Doctor sputters.

Jack waits a beat before allowing a genuine, friendly little breath of a laugh, and a makes a reassuringly dismissive gesture. “Nah, don’t worry.” His eyes glitter with mischief, and he winks. “I know I’m way too old for you.”

“Oh, you—” the Doctor cuts himself short of insulting the man with a huff, shakes his head, and affixes him with a sidelong glare, broadcasting his crossness with his entire face and body.

Jack just holds a perfectly innocent, giant grin that advertises how hilarious he thinks he is.

Clara watches this unfold, amazingly entertained but also growingly incredulous as she wonders _just what_ sort of person this Captain is, to feel comfortable kissing and hugging and making jokes like _that_ around this new, old-faced, stern-browed Doctor. She’s about to speak up when the two men drop their affectations with easy laughter. The Doctor accepts a friendly double handshake, and they share a smile of such mutual respect and affection that something suddenly clicks for Clara.

“Wait… Sooooo which parts of all that were true?”

Both men turn to her, taking in her skepticism tinged with something like worry, and, in unison, start laughing harder.

Then the Doctor jumps, as if remembering his manners. “Right! Jack! This is Clara, Miss Clara Oswald—” he steps behind her, and with his hands on her shoulders, maneuvers her so she’s facing Jack about a pace away—as if she needs guidance towards a handshake. But before she’s even fully stopped moving under his urging, he pulls her back half a step, glancing up at his old friend with suspicion. “Actually, I’m amazed you haven’t already tried to sweep her off her feet…”

Jack raises his eyebrows and stares at the Doctor as if insulted; the Time Lord looks again at his new companion, and then shuffles over close to Jack so that he can lean in and speak at a (barely) lowered volume, “…although I suppose, she is a _bit_ plain, her face _is_ very wide, don’t you think, I keep telling her, she should change her make-up—”

Clara sighs, miffed, but is appeased when she sees Jack’s honestly surprised expression that clearly reads _Are you kidding me!?_ The Captain cuts off what he quickly realizes will only be more (probably, somehow, well-meaning) insults by clasping Clara’s hand and speaking. “It is a _delight_ to meet you, Miss Clara Oswald.” And, possibly just to get on the Doctor’s nerve, he gives his most charming grin and smouldering eyes as he pulls her hand up to lightly kiss it.

This achieves both of the effects he desired: Clara doesn’t exactly swoon, but he figures that tight-lipped flush is as close as this composed young woman would allow herself to get; and the Doctor, scandalized, makes a fumbling sort of karate-chop gesture to force their hands apart while shoving his narrow body right between them. “No, no—none of that!”

The two humans obediently step backwards, both pursing their lips to fight off laughter.

Jack has questions, now—so many questions (what are they doing here—intervening, or not? What do they know about this time and place? And _why_ does the Doctor look like a _very_ dead 21st century Earth politician? Does he even _know_ who he resembles—) and Clara has plenty of her own (if this man directed Torchwood, does that mean it’s still ongoing, or is he another time-traveler, and what does he use for that, and just who was he to the Doctor—) but the sound of a not-too-distant explosion, that rattles the building rather ominously, snaps them all back to the present. Jack peels away from them, quickly crossing the small room to the door and cracks it open.

They all peek out to see what looks like an entire aerial army rapidly encroaching on their position.

“Right,” all three say in a rough unison, “we should probably…”

The humans pause, sharing a grin, and as is only right, it’s the Doctor who finishes the order.

“Run!”

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in over a decade, and my first time writing Who. I'd really appreciate any and all comments!


End file.
